


Once Upon A Murder

by TheSilverQueen



Series: This Match of Blood and Murder [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #HannigramDay, Alternate Universe, M/M, Personal assistant!Will, Will Falling In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will falls in love with Hannibal the same way Sleeping Beauty fell in love with Prince Charming – through forest waltzes, vivid dreams, delayed kisses, and of course the inevitable murder. Or three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon A Murder

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the [#Hannigram Day](http://omnisexualhanniballecter.tumblr.com/post/149006396378/mark-your-calendars-fannibals-were-celebrating). celebration, with many thanks to [omnisexualhanniballecter](http://omnisexualhanniballecter.tumblr.com)!
> 
> This is also a sequel, as requested to [This Match Made In Blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7560133), although it's not necessary to have read that to understand this. Basically, that story was about Hannibal falling for Will, so this story is about how Will fell for Hannibal.
> 
> Lastly, this was partly inspired by [this gifset and meta](http://victorineb.tumblr.com/post/148004942184/axmxz-fancybedelia), although it failed to actually make its way into the fic. Oops.

**PART ONE: I WALKED WITH YOU ONCE**

Working with Hannibal is not particularly difficult. The contract spells out everything really important, and Hannibal isn’t one of the demanding clients who requests coffee or breakfast runs – or, even worse, something a little extra behind the scenes. For the most part, all Will does is play secretary: answer phones, schedule appointments, and greet patients.

He says “play” secretary because, as far as he can tell, Hannibal is both a perfectionist and self-sufficient. 

For example, the man has a ledger of all his appointments, carefully organized and updated, with all the phone numbers and e-mails (although mostly phone numbers, because Hannibal’s clientele is mostly old school) and every other bit of relevant information. Sometimes patients bypass Will entirely to make appointments with Hannibal as soon as their session ends, and often times when they cancel, they, again, automatically contact Hannibal to comply with his stringent 24 hour cancellation policy. And greeting patients isn’t exactly necessary, since Hannibal always keeps some time in between patients, so mostly people just arrive, sit quietly in the waiting room, and then Hannibal ushers them inside.

Essentially, Will really doesn’t know why Hannibal even needs a secretary. He’s so exacting that really, there’s little work left for him to do, since Hannibal likes to do everything important himself.

That is, until the time it’s abundantly clear why Hannibal wanted a secretary.

Agent Jack Crawford shows up right at 4:30 PM on the dot, a large folder tucked under his shoulder and a grumpy expression on his face that grows even grumpier when he sees Will.

“Will Graham.”

Will leans back carefully in his chair. He has no deserve to get into yet another argument on a job with this special agent. “Agent Crawford. I assume you’re willing to wait?”

“No,” Crawford snaps, pushy as always. “I need to see him now.”

“Well, he’s with a patient,” Will replies, as patiently as he can. If there’s one thing Hannibal had stressed, it was being polite to the end, since he, again, mostly has old school and moneyed clientele. They don’t like being told ‘no’, but they also don’t like the idea of losing Hannibal’s treatment, so the compromise is politeness to the bitter end. 

“And that guy is still alive.” Crawford slaps the folder he’s carrying, a sharp noise that makes Will flinch. “I got a dead guy and a family that needs answers.”

Will wants to say, _So go out and find those answers yourself._

Will wants to say, _And he’s dead, so how will waiting thirty minutes more change anything?_

Will really, really wants to say, _Oh, go to hell and take your attitude with you._

What Will does say, luckily, never is heard, because at that moment, Hannibal opens the door with an expression of mild disapproval and says, “Agent Crawford.” 

For Hannibal, that’s essentially a shout, and Crawford seems to know it, because all the bravado instantly seems to melt away, leaving a much politer and nicer man in its wake. Will lefts out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding as the tension in the room shifts to the dominant presence, and seeing the shift from Crawford to Hannibal is amazing in its own right.

“Dr. Bloom recommended you to me,” Crawford blurts out.

Hannibal doesn’t budge. “I am aware,” he says calmly. “She contacted me afterwards to explain the situation.”

“Good,” Crawford says, “then we can – ”

Hannibal holds up a hand, and the words stop as though time itself had frozen. Three careful steps of Hannibal’s long legs bring him directly to Will’s back, and a warm hand descends to rest on Will’s shoulder. Will’s not startled, although he barely resists the temptation to lean back and rest himself against the man who radiates power and control behind him. It’s like an immovable wall at his back, and Will finds comfort in the idea that Crawford could push and push and push, yet with Hannibal there, Will wouldn’t be able to move an inch, no matter how much his empathy was tricked.

Hannibal is solid where Will is malleable, and solid is definitely something Will needs more of.

“I do not believe that your case requiring the badgering of my secretary,” Hannibal points out. “It would be remiss of you to not act as a gentleman, regardless of the urgency.”

Crawford gapes like Hannibal’s just cursed him out.

Will nearly laughs. Instead he swallows that impulse and gives into the impulse to lean against Hannibal’s frame. Hannibal doesn’t even twitch as Will puts most of his weight against Hannibal’s legs, and yeah, that solidness is _definitely_ something that reassures Will in ways he can’t even verbalize. 

“I . . . apologize,” Crawford grits out, sounding like every syllable’s been dragged by a fish hook out of his throat.

Hannibal’s grip loosens – funny, how Will hadn’t noticed how tight Hannibal had been clasping his shoulder – but immediately the tension goes down, and everything seems back to normal. Hannibal ushers Crawford inside and shuts the door, which Will appreciates. He doesn’t need more nightmares to cloud his already battered mind. Instead he slumps to bang his head against his desk, fingers clasped tightly around the pencil in his hand. He’s really surprised it hasn’t broken yet.

Even, it seems, as a secretary, he can’t escape the BAU. Or Crawford.

Idly, for a moment of madness, he contemplates redoing his life. Changing his legal name, selling his house, moving all of his dogs and belongings down to Florida, the whole shebang. He’s saved up enough that he could actually do it, and although he hasn’t done it in years, he’s sure he could pick right back where he left off in terms of boat engine repairs.

The opening of a door jolts him from that pleasant daydream, and Crawford steps out, thanking Hannibal profusely. “Really, doctor, I can’t thank you enough,” he’s saying, “and – oops!”

The file slips out when Crawford reaches out to shake Hannibal’s extended hand, and between one blink and the next, all Will can see are the neat glossy crime scene photos sprawled all over the ground. 

_Will is running._

“Mr. Graham?”

_Will is running, panting, out of breath, going faster than he’s ever gone, but deep down inside, he already knows it’s too late._

“Graham?”

_There’s someone or something behind him, getting closer and closer, and god, he really, really shouldn’t have accepted this challenge. Recreating a crappy sappy romantic song in the dark forest for a thousand bucks had been too good to be true after all, but god, Will had needed the money._

“Graham!”

_Now he’s just running. He’s lost his phone and his flashlight and his camera. He sure as hell didn’t dress right for running around in the snow, so his feet keep slipping, and every single time, he swears he can hear his pursuer get closer._

“GRAHAM!”

_“Get away from me, you creep!” Will screams, with what little voice he has left. “This isn’t funny.”_

_And suddenly, like magic, a man is in front of him, pale and reflecting moonlight like a ghost, every single hair pristine despite the fact that he’s been running too, and a grin full of sharp teeth. “What?” the creep says, “you don’t like this waltz?”_

_“This ain’t a waltz!”_

_And just as suddenly, the man’s face shifts, like the start of an eclipse. “And neither was the waltz you inflicted on the car you were supposed to merely park, not drive circles and take superfluous photos of yourself doing so.”_

_Will would ask “What?” but it’s too late – he’s too busy grasping at his throat, gurgling as blood floods into his lungs and –_

“WILL!”

Hands on his shoulders jolt him out the trance, and Will scrambles backwards instinctively, falling from his chair and landing with a thud on the floor. Instinctual panic drives him backwards, into a corner, while haze blinds his vision, and when hands grasp him again he goes instinctively for the throat.

“Will,” Hannibal says calmly.

And just like that, the haze begins to clear.

He’s on the floor. Crouched in a corner, actually, with Hannibal in front on his knees, hands tight on his shoulders and eyes fixed on his. Behind him is Crawford, grim as always, scooping up more photos of –

“William, listen to me,” Hannibal orders, and Will’s eyes snap back to him. “Repeat after me. It’s 5:30 at night.”

Will has to work his throat several times, but after an eternity, he can croak out, “It . . . It’s 5 . . . 5:30 . . . at night.”

“I’m in Baltimore, Virginia.”

“I . . . I think . . . I am . . . I’m in . . . Baltimore. Virginia.”

“And my name is Will Graham.”

“My name,” Will repeats dutifully, “is Will Graham.”

Hannibal shifts, and when Will clutches at him automatically, he can feel the flush creeping up his spine, but it doesn’t matter. Hannibal is steady and immovable and safe. Will doesn’t want him to leave and left the nightmares come crawling back inside him.

Hannibal says something in another language, peering intently at Will’s face, and when he lifts a hand to tilt his face around, Will relaxes enough to allow it. 

“Will?” Crawford prompts hopefully.

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but not like normal people. He just inhales deeply through his nose and then exhales through his mouth, so quietly that if Will wasn’t two inches from his face, he wouldn’t have even noticed. Since he is so close, though, he can’t help the guilty reaction of ducking his head.

“I will see you tomorrow, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal says, firm and terse in a way Will’s never heard before. 

Crawford’s never heard it either, but it’s like the magic words, because he immediately packs up and departs without another word.

Hannibal breathes in and out again and then moves back, just enough that there’s space so that Will’s returning senses won’t register him as overcrowding. Will would call it masterful, but Hannibal’s a psychiatrist, so he’ll settle for “know it all”. In any case, the prolonged stare really isn’t helping the flush he can feel taking over his face and spreading down his chest.

“That was my last patient.”

“I’m your secretary.”

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s Hannibal’s version of a smile. “I am aware,” he says. “Allow me to walk you to your car?”

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” is Will’s automatic response.

Hannibal helps him to his feet, his gaze warm and steady. “Of that, I am also aware, sweet William. But it is equally in bad taste to allow you to wander in the dark, lost in the travels of the dark of night.”

Will’s not lost in the night. He’s lost in a forest.

“A forest?” Hannibal repeats.

Oops.

“Yeah, the, uh, the victim. Pretty sure he died in a forest. Like Giselle.”

“Giselle is a ballet, as far as I can recall. A sort of tragic love story.”

“Danced to death,” Will murmurs. “Killer and victim, back and forth, round and around, until someone collapsed and the winner was left standing.”

Hannibal, for a moment, says nothing and Will winces internally. It can’t be worse than anything Hannibal’s seen, as a former ER doctor and consultant for Jack, but it isn’t . . . normal . . . to blurt out artistic comparisons of a gruesome death. There’s a reason Will himself isn’t a consultant. 

Finally, Hannibal says, “An interesting parallel. I shall have to remember to mention it to Jack.”

“Just don’t remember to mention my name with it, and it’s a deal.”

“Only if you agree to allow me to walk with you to the car, just this once.”

“Ugh, fine.”

* * *

**PART TWO: VISIONS ARE SELDOM ALL THEY SEEM**

Will sees the second victim in the news. Everyone knows the Ripper kills in cycles of three, so really everyone was just waiting for the second victim to drop, whoever the poor unlucky person is.

Of course, it’s not like Will goes looking for the second victim.

He sees it when he goes into Hannibal’s office to leave him a note about a patient who wants to arrange a special home visit. As far as Will can tell, Hannibal doesn’t really do that sort of thing, but the patient is rich and has had a long relationship with Hannibal, so Will leaves the note just in case.

That is how Will comes across Hannibal’s tablet, opened on Freddie Lounds’s Tattlecrime website, with a great big photo at the top of the second victim.

The man is propped up in his kitchen, slouched and sleazily dressed. His hands are tied down to the table, lazily gripping a fork and knife, where he’s about to cut into his own brain, delicately arranged on a plate in front of him. His eyes are wide, as if he’s a stoner in a high experiencing something out of this world, but Will can read in between the lines.

_Waste of a brain, as you failed to feed it. Why not let it feed you instead, and become the true zombie to your useless desires as you already are in name?_

Will can feel his lunch trying to become reacquainted with his mouth, so at that he makes a hasty exist. He doesn’t want to know if his empathy can imagine up with human brain tastes like, although something tells him that the Ripper would ensure it would be nothing short of delicious. 

That’s why when Hannibal asks, he requests to go home – something Hannibal speedily agrees to – and buries himself in his bed, surrounded by panting puppies and with half his whiskey sitting comfortably in his stomach.

It doesn’t really help, because Will has the strangest dream ever.

In the dream, he’s sitting at one end of a very long, long table. At the other end is a man with a very tall hat with strange points, and Will can’t see his face, but he’s dressed immaculately in some strange black clothing, so black that he nearly blends into the rest of the night. His hands are carefully grasping together, supporting his chin, and he’s considering.

Considering what, Will has no idea, but he blinks and there’s a bowl of soup in front of him.

 _Drink_ , says the strange man, and Will lifts the spoon to his lips and drinks.

Another blink, and suddenly he’s no longer sitting at the table, but lying on it, his head on a hard cold surface. That’s when he feels a knife and fork rest against his skull, and he realizes that the surface is a metal plate. His head on a plate, like a ceremonial meal, and the man who’s no longer wearing a hat but instead with tremendously long black antlers leaning overhead, a grin full of sharp teeth, and no longer with a fork and knife but with long claws, gripping gently at Will’s head, so close Will can feel every single puff of breath the man – the creature makes.

 _You_ , says the strange creature, _You are going to be_ delicious _, aren’t you, my sweet?_

When Will wakes up, gasping for breath and startling his dogs into a chorus of whines and licks, he blames the whiskey.

* * *

**PART THREE: THAT LOOK IN YOUR EYES**

The contract ends, as all contracts do, but Hannibal personally arrives at 8 AM on the dot to renew it at the office.

He’s actually at the door, coat in hand and with a patient expression, before even Will’s managed to stumble in, drinking coffee by the half gallon. Even Ally only beats him by a few minutes, and she lives about ten minutes away.

Will blinks blearily at Hannibal, drinks more coffee, and wanders off to say hello to some of the new puppies Clara’s brought in. Thankfully, Hannibal’s used to his non-morning-person-ness enough by now to not be bothered by Will’s lack of greeting, although he does pointedly wrestle away Will’s coffee and replace it with some weird extremely expensive home-made coffee in some really expensive warming mug.

Will, who is by now is in turn used to Hannibal’s weird obsession with homemade food, accepts it with a sigh.

When he comes back, brushing off puppy fur and saliva from his hands, Hannibal is awkwardly standing under the mistletoe, looking the most uncomfortable Will’s ever seen. Some of Clara’s other puppies have escaped, and in trying to avoid stepping on them, Hannibal accidentally entered into one of the many mistletoe rings Will’s annoying coworkers have strung up. Nobody’s in the circle with him, so Hannibal’s just left standing there while people whisper and giggle in the background.

Will can’t help the smile at that.

 _Haha, politeness doesn’t always work out the best_ , Will thinks, because for any normal person – although rude in Hannibal’s eyes – would have scoffed and jumped right out.

Ally sidles up to him. “Come out, bail out your new boss.”

“Why?”

“You wanna work with him once he’s snogged somebody else?”

“Fine with me.”

Will’s feeling generous though, so after choking down his laughter and after a judicious push from Ally, he marches up and gives Hannibal a quick kiss on the cheek and drags him off as fast as possible, trying to contain the blush as coworkers whistle and clap in the aftermath.

“Interesting solution,” is all Hannibal says, when they finally emerge into the snowy Virginia outside.

“A kiss is a kiss, technically.”

“Technically,” Hannibal repeats softly, and it’s so unlike Hannibal that Will accidentally makes eye contact.

He feels amusement – of course – and patience – why not – and weirdly, slight disappointment. As if Hannibal could have found a polite way out but deliberately didn’t, just to see what Will would do. And yet, Will knows, somehow, that Hannibal had been sure Will would do something, but he didn’t.

 _I should kiss him_ , some part of Will’s brain thinks.

And it’s not like Will _hasn’t_ ogled Hannibal. Cuz he has. Hannibal uses that staircase to the upper level at least once a day, and Will’s not blind. But that’s as far as Will’s let his imagination go.

Dreams don’t count.

Obviously.

Even if they’re daydreams.

“Will?”

Which is when Will realizes he’s been standing there like an idiot, staring at his boss’s lips.

Hannibal is definitely amused now. “A penny for your mind?” Hannibal jokes. “Or should it be more properly a kiss for your heart?”

 _Now or never_ , Will thinks, and before he can stop himself, he leans in and kisses Hannibal right on the lips. Hannibal’s a good kisser, and he doesn’t even flinch, taking Will’s weight like it’s a pleasure to be trusted with instead of a burden to be born. It’s refreshing, to lean into someone’s strength and now that he’ll be safe.

But, you know. Hannibal. Boss. Problems.

So Will backs up, throws in a wink for the hell of it, and takes off, yelling, “See you on Monday” while he runs as fast as he can.

Not running away, of course. Just getting out of the cold, and all that.

Behind him, Will hears Hannibal laughing.

* * *

**PART FOUR: BUT IF I KNOW YOU, I’LL KNOW WHAT YOU’LL DO**

The last victim happens exactly in between Christmas and New Year’s. Will doesn’t generally celebrate either, because crowded parties sound infinitely more terrifying than holing up with his dogs and his whiskey, so Will doesn’t find out until he goes into town to pick up some supplies and sees the picture plastered on every single newspaper in the store.

At first, of course, Will doesn’t realize it.

At first, Will thinks that it’s the typical intrusion of holidays arriving too early, and that Valentine’s Day was perhaps overestimating how early it could be welcome, with red hearts like that.

Then Will meanders a little closer, and realizes that the red heart is actually a human, twisted and broken and bent into a new shape, that of a human heart. Anatomically, almost completely correct, too, some part of his mind notes absently, and pure muscle, since the creator has stripped away skin and carefully concealed bone through elegant maneuvering and skillful arrangement. It’s held up by three stakes, driven deep into the ground, and crowned with tri-colored flowers, white on the outside, red in the middle, and then white again in the middle. The colors perfectly reflect the entire art installation itself – white snow on the ground, red heart, and a fresh coating of snowflakes dotted all over. 

Immediately, a headache starts building in the back of his head.

“RIPPER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM,” the headline shouts. “A GRUESOME HUMAN HEART WITH SWEET WILLIAM FLOWERS.”

_A kiss for your heart?_

Hannibal had said it so lightly Will had been sure it was a joke.

And Hannibal isn’t prone to nicknames or pet names, either. He’s always been incredibly professional and never crossed the line. Yet there in Will’s mind is a creature of antlers and claws, black as night, whispering, _Sweet William_ , over and over again, like a mantra.

Or, perhaps, like a call in Morse code, repeating in a distinct pattern.

Will looks out the store window, and no matter how often he blinks, he can’t un-see the human heart, sitting so innocently in the snow, a message for all to see but only one to understand. Human. Heart. Sweet William. Human. Heart. Sweet William. Human-heart-sweet-William. HumanheartsweetWilliam.

And suddenly, a figure emerges from the darkness, black and tall with a crown of antlers, claws perching delicately on the human heart the same way Hannibal’s fingers had gripped Will’s shoulder, and the creature’s smile matches Hannibal’s smile, slight and small yet seemingly full of dark secrets, and the creature beckons, laughing the same laugh as Hannibal’s laugh, crooning, _Sweet William, sweet William, sweet William._

Will takes the step, just as Hannibal must have known he would.

* * *

**EPILOGUE: YOU’LL LOVE ME AT ONCE**

Hannibal is enjoying a lovely glass of wine when his door bursts open and a snow covered Will ploughs in.

“Good evening,” Hannibal says, and tries to remain stoic.

Inside, though, he wonders. Will often retreats to Wolf Trap, surrounded only by dogs and silence, and even if he has a television, Hannibal simply can’t imagine him sitting down with his whiskey to watch the news. And Will certainly doesn’t keep up with Tattlecrime.

“I saw the Ripper,” Will says bluntly, kicking the snow off his shoes onto the carpet and throwing his coat onto the bench, completely missing the hooks and snow mat Hannibal has placed there.

For anyone else, Hannibal would be eyeing a cut of meat.

For Will, Hannibal tries not to eye his behind.

“Have you informed the police?” Hannibal asks, interjecting as much worry as he can. He’s gotten rather good at playing the concerned-for-your-welfare type, if he can say so. Playing a psychiatrist has had more benefits than simply molding new chrysalises.

Will stops dead in the kitchen, staring at the dinner table where Hannibal’s empty plate now rests. 

There are still stains on it, red ones, and little drips on the edge of the plate from the garnishing sauces. Hannibal had cooked this one so lightly, savoring the rich taste of nearly raw meat.

“Who did you have for dinner, Hannibal?”

At once, Hannibal is caught between two impulses. One is to revel in the usage of his first name, in Will’s lovely voice, something that is so beautiful Hannibal wants to crystallize it in his memory palace forever, to live on as a permanent decoration in the entire wing he’s dedicated to Will. The other is to answer truthfully, but so nonchalantly that most would brush it off as a joke, the same way he’s always answered.

Hannibal compromises. “A rabbit who didn’t quite hop fast enough.”

“And did that rabbit have a name?”

“I don’t tend to ask my butcher for the names of his pets.”

“Do you always expect your knives to answer for you, or are you really just that into cannibal puns?”

Hannibal blinks. Of all the things about Will, he’d never expected him to make the first move.

“A knife always answers my call,” Hannibal says, and with every word he takes a step forward, gauging Will’s response. “I ask for it, and hold it, and guide it, and in the end, I have the most beautiful meal in the world as the result. I can reshape anything, I can destroy anything, I can create anything. A knife for a chef is a brush for an artist. All that is required is the proper motivation . . . and the proper imagination . . . and the proper skill to see the sight through.”

He breathes the last words right into Will’s mouth.

Will says nothing at first, his breath coming in quick little pants, eyes wide with dilated pupils, smelling like fresh snow and friendly dogs and stale air and sweetness.

Then – 

“You peacocking little showoff,” Will laughs, leaning back against the countertop with his throat bared. 

“Are you attempting to insult the bird or me? Because – ”

And that is when Will kisses him.

And, well, Hannibal’s always found that adapting is something the best way forward.

He seizes Will and draws him close, imprinting himself onto his sweet beloved, pressing fingerprints into bruises and lips onto Will’s mouth and body against Will’s body, harder and harder until he could almost see them as one whole being, the edges blurring, sharing breath and blood and mind until they are one creature, one heart beating in perfect harmony. He is Will and Will is him, and together, they are something even greater than the sum of their parts could ever be.

“You arsehole,” Will says, when they part for air, centuries later. “You knew.”

“I don’t remember making a claim for omniscience.”

“You _knew_ I’d find it too beautiful to resist.”

“But of course.” Hannibal brushes errant curls away from his beloved’s forehead and frames the sight in his palace, Will’s luminous eyes and swollen lips and flushed face. “A beautiful gift for the most beautiful of all the consorts in the world. That is all I ever wanted for you.”

Will sighs and slumps against him like a melting puddle. “And here all I wanted is a paddle,” he says, faux-mournfully.

“I am your paddle.”

“No, you’re the carrot Jack Crawford’s been dangling in front of me ever since he learned I moved to Virginia.”

“I’m not adverse to playing multiple roles.”

“I will be highly adverse to you playing multiple roles, if one of them includes dragging me out of bed at all sorts of hours because the FBI is pounding on the door.”

Hannibal smiles. Despite Will’s words, there’s no true fire there. Instead, all Hannibal can hear and smell and sense is curiosity. Fitting, because since the moment Hannibal laid eyes on Will, all he has ever felt is curiosity, burning him up from the inside until even the blood of pigs could only barely quench it. 

He can’t wait to watch Will’s first kill. 

Will regards him with warm eyes. “I’ll help you, but only if you make me a deal.”

Ah, a deal with the devil. How lovely. 

“Sweet William,” Hannibal says, deepening his accent for the pleasing rise of the flush in Will’s cheeks, “name them.”

“You watch. And I get to keep my dogs.”

Well.

Apparently, even a sweet William comes with thorns. 

Will does hit him for that joke, although he certainly fails to object when Hannibal proposes using a bouquet of sweet William flowers, tied with string as red as blood and full of secrets.

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kind comments on This Match Made In Blood for inspiring this! I'm not adverse to adding a third part of the series with little snapshots of their lives afterwards, if people wanna toss me some more ideas in the comments or something. If not, then this'll be the end of this particular AU of Hannigram.
> 
> Also [this](http://artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com/post/148005319317/i-feel-like-hes-watching-his-boyfriend-hanni-roll) is what I imagine Will's face was when he saw Hannibal stuck in the mistletoe lol.
> 
> Lastly, you can come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com)! I also post random [sneak peeks of fics](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com/tagged/sneakpeeksundays) here and there if you're interested, or you can just flail with me over the beauty and wonder that is Hannigram :D


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